


Masks

by SepulchreRS



Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Genre: Backstory, Enemies to Friends, Exposition, Fix-It, Flashbacks, Gen, Memories, Runescape Quest: Sliske's Endgame, Sharing a Body, Soul Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28744002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SepulchreRS/pseuds/SepulchreRS
Summary: The Staff of Armadyl is a very curious Artefact; 'it is quite useful', according to its creator. In truth, even Jas herself does not know the full breadth of the Siphon's abilities, especially not those that can only be achieved between two mortals.One such ability is the linking of minds; or, to put it another way, the linking of souls. Zamorak had a glimpse of this ability when the Siphon allowed him to see the threads that connected Zaros to the world from within his own mind-space. Zamorak and Zaros both lacked souls, but when you link to a being with a proper soul using the Siphon, very curious things can happen.At least one person was aware of this: The Mahjarrat master of shadows, Sliske.
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to Sliske, this is the longest thing I've ever written.  
> This story puts a spin on the moment where Sliske linked himself and the World Guardian via the Siphon. Exposition, backstory, and flashbacks are all plentiful in this one, and some flashbacks are even from quests! Others are canon events that have not been shown on-screen, at least, not yet.  
> I consider this a fix-fic, but it doesn't actually change much of anything, it only gives more context to how Sliske became who he is. It doesn't rewrite him so much as it gives you a better, more fleshed-out explanation for why Sliske acts the way he does.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The World Guardian finally vanquishes the bane of her existence, the Mahjarrat Sliske … or so she thinks. Linked by the Siphon, the enigmatic Mahjarrat enters Sepulchre’s soul-space and encounters her subconscious, who reveals knowledge concerning her devious adversary’s plans and his past.

Laughter; for the past three years, that laugh had been the bane of her existence, and no other sound in the world evoked such intense contempt and disgust. Every time it rang through her ears, she drifted back to that moment. Standing helpless in the darkness on that ancient gray stone, watching him raise the Elder Staff at the God of Balance, just another naïve victim of his silver tongue.

Now it was her turn to laugh. At least, that was her immediate thought.

Their battle in the Heart of Gielinor had raged for what felt like days, the chalky green stone their only witness.

Her nemesis had summoned his strongest wights to eliminate her, he had shunted her in and out of the Shadow Realm, he had rained down storms of shadow across the battlefield. She began to fear it would go on forever, but then - either by fate or by fluke - the Staff of Armadyl slipped from his fingers, finding its way into hers.

With it came an opening; a chance to put an end to both him and his schemes once and for all - she took it. He had telegraphed a leaping strike in arrogant rage, a maneuver easily countered with a simple overhead swing. Predictably, he raised his arms to push upwards against it. The World Guardian used the extra torque provided to arc the bottom staff-end skyward, knocking his hands away. Then, in one fluid motion, she pirouetted on her front foot, into another twirl on the other, spiking the wings that crowned the Godstaff through his abdomen.

For three years, she had jumped through hoops. For three long years, she was constantly looking over her shoulder. For three damn years, she spent every second of every day fixing the things he had broken - but no more. His number was up. Karma had finally come to collect its due for every soul he had stolen, every lie he had told, and every life he had taken.

Time ceased its flow as the Mahjarrat stood motionless, slumped over the staff. Her body was not faring much better; mortal bodies have limits, and she had reached hers. To see this through, she needed just a single second of respite.

The deranged cackle encroached on her senses, and her heart sank. Though she wanted to fasten her hands around the Siphon, the reflexes of a human body are not instantaneous. The Elder Staff thrust backwards, piercing the skin dead-center of her chest, the point of the star impeded only by her sternum. Warm crimson spouted out, staining the gold star, but something else held her attention.

Swirling its way around the Staff was some intangible mass of shadow - no doubt a final gambit by the serpent she’d skewered. He must have created it synchronal to his counter-attack, and before she could react, the shadow had already seeped into the wound opened by the bottom end of the Elder Staff. Her entire body - both inside and out - chilled as if touching ice.

The Mahjarrat’s laughter echoed across the Heart as his body turned to ash, leaving the World Guardian with the memory of one last sick smile.

* * *

Sliske slowly opened his eyes, fearful of what may be looking back at him. He was relieved to see nothing but a peaceful white void, stretching on for what seemed like an eternity.

 _It worked. It actually worked!_ he celebrated without a sound.

Satisfied that his labor had borne fruit, he began his leisurely stroll towards his new home: the incomplete spirit of his own design.

Sliske was unsure where exactly he should be going, but since time had little meaning here, he saw no cause for haste. He wanted to enjoy himself.

Not much ‘time’ had passed, as far as he could tell, before he came upon a figure sitting in the emptiness.

 _Is that her,_ he wondered, _but how?_ Though he opted to sneak away in silence, something possessed ‘her’ to turn around.

“Sliske?” the figure asked, on her feet and looking right at him. “Is that you? How... how did you get in here?!” A tidal wave of animosity washed over her face.

The Mahjarrat froze. He had not been expecting this confrontation so soon - or at all, for that matter. “Would you believe me if I told you I have no idea, World Guardian?” The anxiety in his voice was apparent.

Her eyes narrowed in doubt. “Of course not. You don’t do anything by accident. Just because I’m not ‘consciously’ here doesn’t mean I don’t know where I am. How the hell are you inside my mind??”

“Oh is that where we are?” The robed trickster turned to face her wearing an innocent smile, but her glare only hardened - there was no point in lying to her. “You really do take the fun out of everything, don’t you?” he sighed.

“This is not your mind, World Guardian. It’s the threshold to your _soul_.”

Hatred wrote itself all over her face. “Well then you won’t be able to exist here forever, Sliske. There’s only room for one soul in a mortal body, not even you can…”

Reality struck the World Guardian, and her loathing multiplied exponentially. “You… you son of a… you’re here to fill in that emptiness you left by siphoning out part of my soul…”

Sliske clapped in blatant mockery. “Very good, Sepulchre! I was worried I would have to explain it all to you, but it seems you’re actually intelligent inside your own ‘head’!”

The subject of his ridicule descended into a silent rage, and with each passing moment it seemed that Sepulchre’s anger had shattered a new, hitherto unreachable, ceiling.

Until an inexplicably clever smile emerged, which itself caused the Mahjarrat worry. “I could kick you out if I wanted, you and I both know that…” she stared directly into his eyes as she spoke; a merciful hunter who had cornered its quarry. “I just have one request to make of you, Sliske.”

“Just one, you say?” He found himself hesitantly curious. “And what would that be?”

“No more masks.”

  
“What did you say?” the Mahjarrat asked, clearly troubled.

“No. More. Masks,” she reiterated with greater emphasis. “You don’t have to hide it anymore, Sliske. I know.”

Those words sent him into a panic. Sliske’s eyes darted around the vast blankness for escape, his hands trembled, his body tensed up and his mouth twisted into a scowl. His insides wrenched themselves into a knot from the sudden state of alarm.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he snapped as his fear quickly turned to fury.

Sepulchre’s hand shot up to eye level, only to fall again, slow and steady; she was signaling for calm.

“I’m only the subconscious,” she said with a sigh, “the ‘real’ me will never be able to know this conversation happened.” The ‘subconscious’ still stared straight up into the eyes of the Mahjarrat intruder, “I only ‘exist’ in here, I can’t tell anybody anything.”

In a momentary cycle of expressions that even his host could not comprehend, dozens of emotions came over the Mahjarrat’s features in a single second, before defeat stuck to them.

“How?” he inquired feebly, for it was all he could muster.

The World Guardian’s voice turned soft, “You give yourself away more easily than you think.”

She motioned to the side. “I believe it will be easier to show you. Lord Zaros was once at the threshold to my mind, and he was able to share images. So, if my theory about the Siphon is correct…”

A cluster of translucent figures materialized. Many stood in a circle around another, a circle completed by Sliske and the World Guardian. This was a memory, a memory they shared. The dejected Mahjarrat turned only his eyes towards them.

 _“Excommunication,”_ a dark, monotonous, somehow enchanting voice rang out from the encircled among them. _“You will have no further association with us. You are on your own.”_

Sliske grimaced as his own disembodied voice retorted. _“Oh, I’ve_ **_always_ ** _been alone… But I guess this means you’ll have to find someone else to do your dirty work,”_ he pointed out, more than a bit riled. _“Your new World Guardian pet, perhaps?”_

 _“Leave us,”_ the Empty Lord commanded. _“Never return.”_

 _“‘As you command, my Lord.’”_ The freshly-denounced Mahjarrat openly ridiculed the blind obedience of the others around him.

As quickly as they came, the images disappeared.

Returning his eyes to the ‘ground’ before him, Sliske confessed. “Zaros had betrayed me, and I faltered for only a single moment. Fortunately, Azzanadra, Nex and Char were all too busy ‘basking’ in Zaros’s glory - falling under his curse once more - but you...” his sentence trailed off into the void.

“Are immune to that curse,” Sepulchre finished the sentence that he wouldn’t. “I had heard it,” she admitted, “I know how it feels well enough to know how it sounds.”

“That was when it truly started,” she went on. “Do you remember our next meeting after that?” she asked.

A lackluster nod preluded the shift in their surroundings - a phantom image of the podiums, stage and stairway of the main hall within the Empyrean Citadel Sliske had hijacked.

 _“So, what’s next for me and you?”_ a considerably more calm Sliske queried.

 _“I’m going to kill you.”_ Was the straightforward response, given by a much less calm World Guardian.

 _“Oooh, I knew there was a reason I liked you!”_ Sliske’s past self chuckled, _“I’d like to see you try, sister.”_

There was a low growl in the counter. _“I’m not your sister!”_

 _“Oh, aren’t you?”_ the echo of Sliske mused. _“We both took some of Guthix’s power. We both watched him die. That makes us connected in stronger ways than mere siblings...”_

The rest of the sentence trailed off as the phantom Citadel faded away.

“For a long time, I struggled to understand what that meant.” Sepulchre’s soft tone gave way for something more playful, “but I was enlightened on many subjects by a trip to your own personal library!”

Sliske looked up in dismay. He felt he was being mocked.

The World Guardian sighed again; she pointed at him accusingly. “You, of all people, Sliske, should be able to take a joke. If you’re going to be a stick-in-the-mud, I really am going to kick you out of here, you got that?”

He showed a hint of a smile. “Oh, very well, Valenthia.” She twitched from his mockery of her birth name. “I shall humor you. What did you learn in my personal library?”

In unison, the disembodied voices of both the World Guardian and her Mahjarrat foe spoke. Both voices, because she had read it, but he had written it. _“As predicted the Siphon was insufficient to grant me ascension, for which I am so very very glad._

_“Guthix, in his dying breath, created something new, an agent of upheaval that I would never have dreamed of. He called her the ‘World Guardian.’ She will be the key to unlock complete chaos across all of Gielinor. I think I’m in love.”_

“I fear I’ve made an error here,” Sliske interjected. “Guthix _did not_ call you that.”

“What do you mean? Guthix said that himself in his dying breaths!” she asserted.

An abrupt change fell over the area, turning the white void below into black. The giant green form of the God of Balance appeared in front of Sliske. He was awake, aware and awaiting - these were the moments just before his death.

His deep, soothing, and godly voice filled the air around them. _“I know you are there, Sliske,”_ he began. _“The Shadow Realm cannot hide you from me. Step forward - we will speak.”_

“Quite perceptive, Guthix,” Sliske responded, impressed. “Most people don’t even have an inkling that I’m watching them. Not even the other gods!”

 _“I know why you have come, Sliske,”_ the last of the Naragi revealed, _“I know what you are here to do.”_

Guthix paused for half a moment. _“You are here to kill me.”_

“Yes!” Sliske responded gleefully.

The Nature God responded with some momentary satisfaction, _“Good.”_

His voice quickly returned to its neutral tone. _“Know this: my death will not bring you what you seek, but it must be done. And it must be by your hand.”_

“If I gain nothing, what is the point?” Sliske asked with a bit of disappointment.

 _“You will never be a god,”_ Guthix replied, _“but your hand will usher in a new age. With my death, the gods shall return…”_

Sliske continued the thought, “and immediately start trying to kill each other. A new God Wars. Now, that does sound like fun,” he exclaimed.

“But why would you want such a thing?” the Mahjarrat inquired, suspicious.

 _“It is necessary,”_ Guthix explained, _“from my death will be born another, one that the world needs more than me. A new guardian for this world, one with the power to stand against those who will rise.”_

Sliske seemed interested. “A ‘World Guardian?’ Hmmm… Tell me more.”

The memory faded; the static white spread itself back out across the mindspace, and Sliske returned his attention to the woman **he** had christened ‘the World Guardian.’

“See?” Sliske said with triumph, “the title was of my creation. You’re welcome.”

The World Guardian’s stare was vacant.

“Sorry, sorry, let’s get back to your story, I suppose,” he grumbled, ignorant to the disorder in her thoughts.

Sepulchre stood in stunned silence for several seconds. _Guthix had planned this?_ Now she was the lost cub, staring down an unseen hunter. _He didn’t just let Sliske kill him, he_ **_told_ ** _Sliske to kill him…_

The Mahjarrat impatiently snapped his fingers in her face. “Don’t go passing out on me yet, World Guardian!”

The unexpected snap dispelled her torpor. _That’s all irrelevant now,_ she convinced herself.

“If you’re finished cutting off my answer to your own question…” she grumbled, clearly annoyed by the disruption.

Sepulchre glanced silently to her right, and the disembodied voices continued their retelling. _“We're not as similar as I had hoped, are we? It won't work unless I can make her more… compatible.”_

The smile on Sliske’s face grew. It seemed almost as if her deductive capabilities had impressed him. “So you figured it out, did you? Yes, that’s right - with Guthix’s divine energy residing in us both, all I had to do was manipulate you into altering your soul ever so slightly, so that you would be a bit more… congruous to my essence.” He bowed with a flourish.

“Still,” Sliske remarked, voice ringing with guile, “I’m surprised you remember anything that happened that night…”

Without warning, a phantom Staff of Armadyl spawned in his grasp, and their surroundings once again shifted to a spectral recreation of a place from their past: the caverns below the Barrows.

 _“Hah! I wouldn’t bet on that! I’m pulling out her soul! Soon it will be mine!”_ The sounds of the Siphon tugging at her soul filled the World Guardian’s ears.

 _“I will have to do something about all these useless memories and emotions. Like your childhood in Darkmeyer, your feelings for Cyrisus, the fact you’ve seen my…”_ Sliske paused; a pause that spelled certain doom. _“You’ve seen my plans. My real plans. The secret plans.”_

 _“What’s the matter, Sliske,”_ The World Guardian taunted, _“Not what you were expecting? Did you truly not realize that statue was adjacent to your own library?”_ Ignorance was bliss - if she knew what was coming, she’d change her tune.

 _“You're not allowed to see behind the mask.”_ The Mahjarrat’s voice was just as blank, distant, and emotionless as she remembered. _“Nobody is.”_

 _“S-Sliske...?”_ The World Guardian’s voice trembled; she’d realized her mistake far too late.

Sliske hurled the Staff to the ground in an impossibly perfect recreation of the unyielding rage displayed on that horrid night. Sepulchre’s arms instinctively clung to her body.

_“YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO SEE THAT!”_

Knowing it was coming did not stop her yelping like a kicked pup when she felt the shooting pain in her gut. Visions of the moment flashed through her mind, adding apprehension to agony. With the force of an enraged charging unicorn, the Mahjarrat had crossed the room in less than an instant, nearly goring her umbilical region with his elbow.

Pictures flooded back of involuntarily hunching over right into the hand of her incensed assailant, which constricted around her throat as she was launched ferociously into the wall behind her. She screamed, but the snake throttling her allowed no sound. Every inch of her body shuddered as it met the hard, jagged stone; bruises, cracked bones and several lacerations sent her synapses into a frenzy.

No respite was given before the next assault. Images flickered of a hysterical, wild-eyed Sliske mauling her thorax with his bare fist, bludgeoning her ribs to pieces in mere seconds. A faint squeal accompanied every blow, each one barely squeezing past his stranglehold. Each subsequent wail became less and less audible the more air he battered out of her lungs.

A visualization of the Mahjarrat dropping his vice-grip followed. In that same moment, the still-irate Sliske reared his fist back one last time. This time, it slammed right into the side of her mouth. The impact shattered her jawbone and knocked her to the ground.

The last of her memories from the thrashing commenced without pause. Gasping for air through her own blood, she’d gotten herself to her hands and knees, parallel to the wall he had smashed her into - a critical error. She heard only an unholy roar as something, likely his knee, was driven into the side of her skull with enough force to floor a siege-beast, smashing it right into that same rock wall.

The World Guardian dropped to the floor, unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I have edited anything I've written more than the part where the World Guardian relives the beating Sliske gives her in Kindred Spirits. I'm glad it ended up having a purpose by the end of all this, else it might have been a waste of time.  
> Sliske showing her the conversation with Guthix that we see during Desperate Times was a late addition to the story. It's one of my favourite things in recent memory, though it also serves a purpose.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his antics with her subconscious mind, Sepulchre presents the soul-trespassing Mahjarrat with the proof she has been given about the road he’s taken. Sliske decides to give her a glance into his past - including his pivotal role in the battle that put the Mahjarrat into Icthlarin’s service - and his perspective on his own life.

Sepulchre opened her eyes. “Wakey wakey, World Guardian. You shouldn’t just go passing out in your own head! Actually,” Sliske chuckled, back to his old self, “I didn’t even know you could!”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s because you made me remember passing out,” she explained. “Thank you for that, by the way. I so thoroughly enjoyed taking that beating the first time.”

“You know why I did it. You saw something you shouldn’t have,” Sliske admonished her like a parent would their child.

“Except it wasn’t what you thought I had seen,” she corrected, rising to her feet. “Whatever was in that journal that you were angry I saw wasn’t even in the journal anymore.”

Sliske brought a finger to his chin, imitating deep thought. “If it wasn’t in the journal, then how do you know about it?”

“I’m getting to that,” she growled, “now stop interrupting me. What I was going to say is that I didn’t put the pieces together until after Mah’s death, when I went back to Daemonheim to speak with Lord Zamorak…”

She turned to the left just in time for an image of the God of Chaos to appear before her, speaking in his gravelly, almost demonic voice. _“You are wasting your time, World Guardian, Sliske is a madman and a snake. You should be asking me to help you kill him, not help you understand him!”_

“But Lord Zamorak,” the World Guardian protested, “you said it yourself; the Ritual has shaped the Mahjarrat race. Surely Sliske is no exception to that?”

_“He is not. The Sliske I knew on Freneskae was not as devious or evil as the one we know on Gielinor, and the Sliske I knew before he came face-to-face with the Ritual was even less so.”_

“Before he was nearly sacrificed, you mean?” she probed with great interest.

Zamorak nodded. _“Sliske was nearly sacrificed at a Ritual early on in his life. You must understand that, prior to this, Sliske was little more than a prankster and a nuisance. His considerable affinity for the shadows was employed only to play practical jokes or to make fools of others.”_ It was odd to hear about his days as a mortal, the Lord of Chaos never spoke of them to her.

 _“This was why he was considered for the Ritual,”_ he continued. _“Suddenly desperate, Sliske disappeared into the shadows, only to emerge moments later behind a Mahjarrat of no small power named Gaiagon.”_

There was a certain anger to Zamorak now, recalling the Rituals that killed so many of his people. _“He put a shadow-wreathed hand over Gaiagon’s mouth, killing him in seconds. The sacrifice had been made. From that day forward, Sliske began to play less and less ‘jokes,’ opting to commit more and more atrocities instead.”_

The specter of Zamorak disappeared, and Sepulchre turned back to her Mahjarrat companion. “That was it, wasn’t it?” she stared directly into his eyes as she asked. “That was when you turned into… this?”

  
For the first time in five years, Sepulchre saw true honesty in Sliske’s eyes - no more masks.

“Valenthia,” this was the first time Sliske had ever used her birth name with respect, “do you understand what it is like to face oblivion?” he asked. “To know that if you die, you won’t wake up on a bridge with some dog-faced deity waiting to shepherd you to your eternity? To know that every breath you take, every word you speak, every move you make, could be your last?”

Valenthia shook her head.

“Before Death himself started saving your sorry soul, you at least had an afterlife to look forward to. We Mahjarrat are afforded no such luxury; beyond what we have now, we have nothing.”

The Mahjarrat gestured to his right, bringing forth a phantom image of the Ritual marker. “Looking at this slab of stone made every Mahjarrat for the past twenty thousand years, likely much longer, realize just what it was they feared. Oh, we may have acted fearless, but make no mistake, when we gazed at this stone, our hollow bravado crumbled into dust.

“I was afraid of two things: being alone, and being forgotten. I made ‘jokes’ to make people notice me, to make people pay attention to me, to make my own existence matter. Yet, when it came time to choose a life to end, they chose mine. Instead, I chose to end another, using my powers in ways I never had, ways I’d only ever use them in my darkest thoughts - until that day.”

With another wave of his hand, the marker disappeared. “I did not enjoy what I had to do, but I did it. When the time for a Ritual drew near, my skills with the shadows made me valuable, made me an asset. They made everybody afraid that if I didn’t like them, I would make them the next sacrifice before the battle could even begin.”

Sliske impatiently put up a finger, predicting the interruption she was about to make. “Yes, there were others who mastered the shadows among us: Palkeera, Hazeel, my old protégé Trindine, and more. None of them truly compared. I’d tell you to ask them, but only Hazeel remains. I’ve outlived the rest.”

His finger became bathed in Shadow, and then his whole hand, just the way Zamorak had described. “I spent my time mastering the Shadows, biding my time until each Ritual was imminent, when everybody else suddenly wanted to be my friend.”

His eyes filled with a deep-seated hatred. “After the Ritual, they would cast me aside, like a doll that had lost its novelty. Nobody actually _wanted_ to associate with me, ‘Sliske, the coward who fought only with shadows’, no, they only desired to use me for my power. I was never wanted, only useful, or so I was told. Without the Ritual, I would always have been alone.

“For nearly five thousand years, I experienced this over and over again. Being loved and then hated, being desired and then shunned.” His face fell. “Eventually, even I didn’t want to be around me, cursing myself for allowing me to be pulled into this hateful, monotonous cycle.

“But that all changed one day,” he said with a hint of pleasure, “when I had gone to the Ritual site at the call of our eldest; according to him, a gateway from another world had appeared. Through that gateway stepped two people that you and I both know very well.”

* * *

A phantasm of Icthlarin appeared, bringing with him the shadow of Freneskae and images of at least five hundred other Mahjarrat. The image of Amascut faded as quickly as it spawned, walking off into the distance.

Sliske stood near the back, looking on like a child being offered candy. The Menaphite God of the Underworld spoke, a low and flat voice with clear divinity behind it, _“The evil my people face looms over all creation. It will not be long before the Emptiness comes to claim this world as well. Your might in battle is unrivaled across all worlds, and so I ask of you: Join us on the battlefield, vanquish this Darkness, and be granted a new, better home!”_

A raucous wave of voices filled the air in a language that grated against the World Guardian’s eardrums. Looking on through gritted teeth and covered ears, she spotted a few familiar faces amongst those arguing: Bilrach, Hazeel, Lucien, and Akthanakos - arguing with Enakhra, of course.

Noticing his companion’s discomfort, Sliske carefully placed a shadowed hand on her shoulder; much to her amazement, the voices became clear.

This happened just in time for one to step forward, another Mahjarrat she recognized: Azzanadra. _“Enough,”_ he shouted. _“I say we travel with our noble guest, back to his home. For too long we have wasted away in one place, among a universe of endless opportunity! A new world, a new battlefield and a new life is what the Mahjarrat deserve!”_

Another Mahjarrat silently stepped forward in support of him, prompting gasps from the crowd. “I’ve heard about another powerful Mahjarrat who supported leaving.” Sepulchre did not take her eyes off this display as she leaned in closer to Sliske. “His name was Temekel, I believe?”

“Yes, the poor fool,” Sliske bemoaned. “Stronger than both Azzanadra and Zamorak, he would likely have been Legatus Maximus had he defected to the Empire along with us.”

Another Mahjarrat spoke, a much smoother and more pleasant voice, _“You are a fool, Azzanadra! This place has been our home for longer than any here can remember. We do not need to be made fat by leaving for some world of luxury, we need to stay here, to stay strong!”_

There were both cheers and jeers in response, but another stepped forward to back this one. He spoke with a gruff, possibly older voice. _“Abrogal speaks wisely. We must not be fooled into leaving our home by some stranger! Let us remain and conquer the other tribes, becoming the supreme rulers of this world!”_

Sliske rolled his eyes. “And that old windbag is Salisard,” he muttered.

First there was only arguing. Temekel and Abrogal hurled insults at each other that should never be repeated, Salisard and Azzanadra began exchanging heated words, and the other Mahjarrat had begun to follow suit.

More and more voices filled the air with each passing second, some saying to go, others saying to stay. Some even changed sides upon hearing other voices share their opinions; voices of their friends or family, presumably. Then, somebody lost patience - a bolt of shadow blasted some hapless young Mahjarrat to the ground.

That proverbial straw broke the camel’s back. A war broke out the scale of which could lay waste to any kingdom on Gielinor. Magic soared through the sky like firelighters shot from cannons, brawls were happening in every direction, Mahjarrat teamed up on each other or turned on one another as allegiances were made clear. More cowardly seeming members of the tribe would change sides when overpowered, though others would die defiant.

The four biggest players went right for each other as soon as the fighting broke out. Azzanadra and Temekel were barraging their adversaries with enough force to level small towns, and Salisard and Abrogal wasted no time responding in kind.

Akthanakos and Enakhra were, of course, going at it. _It would be more worrying if those two weren’t trying to kill each other_ , Sepulchre reasoned.

Meanwhile, Hazeel and Zemouregal - along with who she now recognized as Zamorak - were fighting in tandem. They watched each other’s backs and smote any who dared make an attempt at them with combined force. Surprisingly, there were a few either brave or stupid enough to try it; they fared as well as one would expect.

Much to her amusement, there was one other fight between two familiar faces: Bilrach and Lucien had begun to trade shots, leaving Lucien flat on his back.

Something moved out of the corner of the World Guardian’s eye. She turned to see that Sliske had gone missing… or so she thought. She was proven wrong when he reappeared across the battlefield in an instant, grabbing the Mahjarrat known as Abrogal and disappearing back into the shadows immediately.

Azzanadra, Temekel, and Salisard were dumbfounded as one-fourth of their duel seemingly ceased to be, without cause, rhyme, or reason. Once more Sliske popped back into existence, throwing Abrogal down at the foot of the Ritual Stone. He vanished before a single Mahjarrat eye caught sight of him.

With the sacrifice of Abrogal, Salisard very quickly found himself overwhelmed by the combined might of Azzanadra and Temekel - he was already dead. The battle was won, and no other dared speak out against the victors.

Without warning, the world around them quaked, a sign of Mother Mah’s approval in the eyes of some. The fate of the Mahjarrat tribe had been decided - they would follow Icthlarin to the world known as ‘Gielinor.’

  
The phantoms around the two faded, and Sliske looked upon his new ‘soul-mate’ with pride. “After making certain my people would journey to this new world, I found a permanent purpose there: war. In war I was useful, in war I was looked upon with respect and fear, and it was in war that I found my favorite hobby and ultimate claim to fame.”

He spread his arms out wide, exhibiting the shadows of countless creatures appearing behind him - Human, Demon, Vampyre, Icyene and more. Each and every one looked to be at the top of their class; warriors, scouts, mages, healers, archers, assassins. Front and center were the eight Barrows wights, standing among the thousands of others Sliske accrued over nearly seven thousand years.

“After millennia,” the Mahjarrat chuckled, “I no longer had to be alone! I could take my enemies and force them to be mine forever, all while using them as constant reinforcements for the deities we followed. I could not enslave any of the creatures on Freneskae, but here on Gielinor there were souls aplenty! Life was finally worth living.

“Until Icthlarin decided we had won, that is.” Sliske rolled his eyes and once again an image of the Sun’s Firstborn appeared, his gaze focused behind the Mahjarrat.

 _“Uzer has been reclaimed,”_ he declared, triumphant. _“Do not think me ignorant of your sacrilege, Sliske. I know how you bind the souls of your victims to your will. No longer will I tolerate such an insult to my position. Release these souls to me at once,”_ Icthlarin demanded, believing his command would be heeded without question.

“I don’t think I’ll be doing that, ‘Lord’ Icthlarin,” the soul-stealer said, wearing a sardonic smirk. “I’m afraid I have grown attached to my new toys. I am confident your subjects appreciate the constant reinforc—”

 _“You shall not defile my duty any longer, Mahjarrat!”_ The ground beneath them trembled at his roar. Icthlarin raised a hand, and - with but a single thought - the wights behind Sliske dispersed. _“Consider yourself warned, Sliske. I will tolerate no more of these abominations among my ranks.”_

The smile remained even after the vision of Icthlarin faded. “So I went to the Empty Lord, and, oh, you’ve heard the rest of that story before.

“Oh the joy that came from enslaving soul after soul when we launched the counterattack against Icthlarin and his meagre forces,” Sliske laughed. “I reveled in my work, my art, my living collection of the strongest mortal champions I could find.” In his fervor, he began to gesture emphatically every few words.

“After Tumeken’s ‘sacrifice’ we moved elsewhere to battle followers of other gods, and my collection expanded. The practices I once hesitated to perform became my greatest pleasure! No longer were the shadows just a refuge, they had become my home. I was sure to claim a high rank in Zaros’s army - Legatus for certain, I had convinced myself of that much!”

The smile slowly began to fade. “The title of Legatus was bestowed upon Zamorak, Hazeel, Zemouregal and even my own brother.” His countenance turned sour. “But to me he bestowed a different rank: Praefectus Praetorio.” A decorative seal - presumably the seal of his rank - appeared upon his cloak.

“Forbidden from making wights out of ‘citizens’, I was forced to give up that hobby for the time being. Worse, upon my new assignment, I found that very few people desired to share my company, let alone to converse with me. All the progress made in service to Icthlarin was wasted; I was alone again, and I couldn’t even figure out why!” the last word had formed into a hiss. Even the memory of it all infuriated him.

“The more I tried to be relevant in society, the more people pushed me away. They told me I was a monster. Some evil, shadow-walking soul-claiming disease, they said. The common rabble insulted me behind my back, and the arrogant upper class was no better.

“I tried to make people do something, anything outside the norm, trying to break the cycle of monotony caused by the dominance of the Empire - but they were all just so… indifferent. It was like they didn’t care about anything. Every time I tried to put something into motion, they just scowled at me, as if I had done something wrong!” He almost sounded victimized at this point.

“How could I, the Praetorian Prefect, be so unloved and untrusted?” he asked with a hint of dismay. “There was only one possible explanation - one that I now know as fact thanks to the Empty Lord’s big mouth: Zaros never trusted me.

“Why else would I, who could turn our enemies into our own soldiers, be locked behind the walls of Senntisten?” the former Praetor grumbled. “I turned to playwriting and puppeteering to relieve my boredom, but I saw the reality. The cycle of repetition had claimed me once again. I was back to where I started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes two things I really liked.  
> Firstly there was the retelling of the debate and battle from Bilrach's memory of how the Mahjarrat decided to come to Gielinor with Icthlarin. I think Sliske secretly help those who wished to leave is the most 'Sliske' way to have him behave. He's not **the only** reason they came here, but he contributed in an appropriate way.  
> Second is something I think Jagex should've touched on: how much Sliske must've been hated. The power he has is something people, even Mahjarrat, would fear. People fear what they don't understand, and fear is only half a step away from hatred. Being hated leads to feeling hatred, and it's all downhill from there.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sliske’s tale continues through the ages, finally forcing his truth to the surface. Sepulchre, having heard his tale, expresses her opinions on his circumstances, ultimately showing sympathy for her once-hated enemy. They begin to converse more casually, and things go well. The World Guardian broaches a dangerous subject.

The Mahjarrat’s tale continued.

“I gradually began to hate the Empire for dumping me back into that cycle of hatred, loneliness, complacency and stagnation,” he reiterated. “I enjoyed using the shadows to manipulate people, I enjoyed acting with all my heart, that’s true enough; but, there were only so many citizens to puppeteer, only so many different shows I could put on! Repeat performances scream ‘unimaginative’, you know!

“So, when word of Zamorak’s planned betrayal reached me, I said nothing.” Saying this plastered the serpent-like grin across his features once more. “I watched with sheer delight as Zamorak plunged the Empire into chaos when he usurped the Empty Lord.” Indeed, there was genuine delight in his eyes.

“I began preparations for Zaros’s return at once, anticipating that his return would shake things up once more, knowing that he could never insult me again if I was responsible for it.

“Azzanadra mistook my efforts for loyalty, and so I found myself among the loyalists, despite having allowed the rebellion’s success.” He couldn’t help but laugh at that fact.

“The God Wars brought with them many perks. They allowed me to resume my collection of souls, they forced the world into motion, and finally the gods acted rather than cowering at the sight of Zaros’s Empire!”

He was practically drowning in jubilation. “Bandos sent forth his mangled creations, Zamorak’s demons brought with them the fires of Infernus, and the majestic flight of the Icyene was present all across the sky! For over four-thousand years, the world was more exhilarating than it had ever been before, or since!”

The excitement abruptly abandoned his features. “Zamorak went too far, as he always does, causing the Anima Mundi to cry out and awaken Guthix. It was not long before the God Wars ended, leaving me bored and alone, again!

“Naturally, the world once more decided it no longer needed me,” the Mahjarrat scoffed. “The armies I had aided called me a ‘snake,’ individuals I’d granted power had decided I was a ‘freak,’ people whose lives I had saved labelled me a ‘monster’. I was universally regarded as a blight upon the world, for the thousandth time. The Empire was gone, but still people hated me! So I began to hate them right back.”

  
Long before now, Sepulchre had resigned herself to sitting down, becoming more and more engrossed in the tale of her Mahjarrat friend’s life with each and every word. Sliske took notice of this, making him less inclined to descend into an immediate rant.

“Fed up with Gielinor, I took to the shadows to explore other worlds, hoping to find more entertainment elsewhere,” he recounted his steps following the God Wars.

As he expected, the World Guardian was confused by this. “The Shadow Realm itself spans across all worlds, growing more potent the closer you get to Freneskae,” he explained. “There is nowhere you cannot go with mastery of the Shadows.

“During what your people called the Fourth Age, I would often ‘check in’ on the other gods while they were off-world.” Phantom images of four ‘gods’ sprang forth.

“Armadyl spent nearly a millennium moping around the cosmos, Saradomin sat on his throne on Hallow giving orders and making decrees. Zamorak moved from planet to planet and watched life grow before destroying it - as is his way - and Bandos… was being Bandos.” The Mahjarrat made motions of a creature dying.

“Yet, for all their differences, all of them would constantly go back to toiling over one goal: returning to Gielinor! They had the entire cosmos as their oyster, but all they could think about was Gielinor!” Sliske threw his hands into the air in frustration, still enraged by this fact.

“So I decided to turn my attention back to this world. I was convinced that I was missing something, that there must be a reason the gods fixated on this world as they did. I traveled back to Gielinor only to find that most of the races had become lost children without their deities.” Suddenly, the four gods vanished from around them.

“On the very few occasions that I offered help, I was turned away for being ‘spawn of Zamorak’ or a ‘creature of darkness.’” He clenched his fists, stammering as his fury came to a boil. “These mortals, these… these frail and weak whelps, these insignificant, short-lived nobodies! They all looked at me like I was below them!”

There was no more gesturing or posing, only vitriol. “This world of worthless races mocked and hated me, yet the entire cosmos catered to this damnable rock!” Sliske grit his teeth, unwilling to break out into full-on screams.

“I was only ever wanted when I was useful, and I was only ever useful when there was conflict! With the gods all focused on Gielinor, there would be no conflict anywhere else in the cosmos!”

The four phantom gods briefly reappeared. “I finally have the gods back here, and yet they still sit around, doing nothing! It’s as if this world just inspires complacency in even the most powerful beings, like some kind of a drug! So long as that continues, I will have nothing - I will _mean_ nothing!”

At long last, the real reasons for his mad schemes were revealed.

  
Sliske seethed unabatedly, and it became clear he would speak no longer.

“So that was why you killed Guthix, to bring back the gods?” the World Guardian asked, still processing his story.

Sliske simply eyed her, enraged.

“The gods came back, and you preemptively started a contest to make sure they go to war, promising the Stone of Jas to the winner. Yet somehow, after Armadyl kills Bandos, everything once more comes to a standstill…”

There was no response, so she continued. “You could say you were just following Lord Zaros’s orders, providing that distraction. Which I guess means you _did not_ expect Lord Zaros to expel you from his ranks?”

The Mahjarrat shook his head, still silent.

Sepulchre inhaled deeply. “Let me preface this by pointing out that your actions were horrible, your methods unforgivable, and the results nearly cataclysmic.

“You stole people’s souls and enslaved them, and you didn’t care. You hurt people, deceived people, and forced them into doing terrible things. There have been thousands - maybe even millions - of people that you’ve killed, tortured, or manipulated in some way over the past seven millennia.”

The soul-stealer averted his gaze, though for what reasons she could not discern.

“You intended to throw the entire universe into unending bloodshed, reveling in all of it. Hell, let’s not dance around it, you were trying to bring about the end of all creation. You, Sliske, _were_ a monster.” She reached this conclusion without bias, only facts.

“Being alone, unwanted, afraid, or even hated doesn’t justify the terror you’ve wrought,” she affirmed, “and in all honesty, I still wouldn’t hesitate to kill you, even knowing all of this.”

Another breath in. “However…”

The word brought the Mahjarrat’s eyes back towards his newfound confidant. His expression was calmed by the warmth radiating from her own. “I don’t entirely blame you, Sliske,” the World Guardian confided.

A minor sense of hope appeared under his silent countenance. “Everything that you’ve done, everything that you’ve become - it was never your choice. You weren’t sadistic or deceitful because you wanted to be, you were sadistic and deceitful because the alternative was to be dead,” she pointed out.

“Freneskae was an unforgiving world, and the culture is always shaped by the landscape. What you are is what the hands of fate made you. Gielinor only gave you the freedom to carry that persona to its absolute extremes, and you knew of no reason why you shouldn’t.”

Sliske’s mouth opened, but the World Guardian halted him with a hand. “You could have adapted. So many other Mahjarrat did, I know that for a fact, yet you chose not to,” she admonished him. “Though in truth, I suspect your position as Praefectus Praetorio was Zaros taking advantage of your darkness, using you to make sure his empire was watched from the Shadows at all times.

“But when Zamorak deposed Zaros, you continued. The Rituals had dramatically decreased in frequency, yet you persisted.”

Her expression hardened, and his gaze fell away. “You had four thousand years without Zaros influencing you, and no Mahjarrat had any hope of catching you - you were safe from the Rituals.” She seemed almost disappointed in him. “This is where I hold you accountable, Sliske. After the God Wars, you had nobody left to blame for your actions but yourself.

“So yes, maybe at first Seren was to blame for the Rituals,” she conceded, “and then Zaros, who manipulated your nature to make you his tool, his eyes in the shadows.”

The World Guardian stood up and stepped forward, forcing the Mahjarrat to acknowledge her. “But Sliske, for the past two thousand years, this has all been on _you_.”

The Mahjarrat found no witty retort, no scathing counter.

“I know…” he admitted.

“But, on behalf of the entire world…” she paused for a single moment, “I, the World Guardian… forgive you.”

Deafening silence steeped into the world around them. Sliske turned away, his masks having crumbled to nothing. For the first time in over ten millennia, somebody had finally wrenched the truth from his lips.

This woman, this mortal girl, shattered his masks with naught but words, through sincerity and honesty. She was the first person to ever see him for what he truly was: a scared, lonely, hateful Mahjarrat who was driven by the world around him, and his own impulses, into becoming a monster. All of this, for the sake of something so petty as “to make my existence matter.”

Yet somehow, she forgave him anyway.

* * *

Although time stood still in the soul threshold, the silence felt as though it lasted for hours. Sliske wasn’t going to break that silence, of that the World Guardian was certain. She would have to be the one to push things forward.

“You know, the first time I met you I was almost… enamored,” she recalled. “The mysterious, shadowy Mahjarrat master of the Barrows brothers, who Zemouregal tried to find for centuries, but never could.”

She gave him a half-hearted smile. “Without you, we could never have beaten Zemouregal, Lucien and Khazard then, at the Ritual.”

It felt bizarre to see Sliske return a genuine half-smile. “Oh, I could hardly believe my luck when you just marched right up to Ghorrock mere days before our Ritual. I watched you put up those silly beacons for Azzanadra, argue with that somniferous ‘researcher’ Movario, I even watched you smash poor old Zemouregal’s control crystal into pieces.” He laughed at the thought of Zemouregal throwing a tantrum.

Her half-smile reformed to a half-pout. “I wish I could laugh at the memories of that day,” she twined. “It’s because of you that I can’t!”

Phantom images rose to life around them yet again. Another Mahjarrat with some resemblance to Sliske stood between them while an older gentleman wearing white armor and a young man dressed in blue robes stood to either side of the World Guardian. Looming slightly off to the side was the prize among prizes: The Stone of Jas. The centerpiece of the hill they stood on felt ironic, in hindsight - the Mahjarrat Ritual marker.

 _“Yes, but the Stone is still here,”_ the spectral Mahjarrat said, a slight Kharidian accent. _“Perhaps we must hide it away, prevent its further use… or misuse.”_

In the most devious tone ever heard by mortal ears, Sliske’s voice spoke up, _“Good luck with that, my brother.”_

 _“Still here Sliske?”_ Wahisietel questioned. _“I thought you’d have left with the rest of them.”_

 _“I had a reason to stay…”_ Sliske assured him.

 _“Sepulchre, I have been following your progress for some time now, watching from the shadows.”_ There were footsteps as he drew closer. _“You have grown most powerful, and now I am rejuvenated, I have an opportunity to expand my collection.”_

 _“E-excuse me…?”_ croaked an absolutely terrified version of the World Guardian’s voice, the sounds of backsteps mixed within.

Sir Tiffy Cashien spoke up in what was, given the circumstances, a very well-mannered tone of voice, _“Now, hold on there, sneak. Sepulchre’s one of us don’t-cha-know?”_

Sliske laughed that famous laugh, _“And now she is one of mine. Come with me to the Barrows, Sepulchre.”_

Akrisae had leapt into the air in front of her just as the apparitions faded.

“You should have seen the look on your face,” Sliske howled in a fit of laughter. “I’ve never seen a face go from so brave to so pathetic in my thirteen-thousand years!”

“I-it’s not funny, Sliske,” she stammered, a slight tinge of red to her cheeks. “You had just admitted to stalking me for Zaros’ sake! Any normal human being would’ve been mortified at the thought!”

“Well then it’s a good thing you’re not a normal human being,” he commented, quickly calming himself.

“Besides,” he continued, “we made quite the team that day, you and I. Me dancing around Zemouregal, winding him up like an off-key music box, while you led the Barrows brothers in cleaving through his shambling undead.

“Why, if my memory doesn’t fail me, it was our combined barrage of blood and shadow magic - along with Arrav’s unyielding thirst for righteous retribution - that forced Zemouregal to realize Lucien had abandoned him!”

Sliske sifted through his memories of that day with some amusement. “I recall even intercepting a shot Lucien hurled right at you! To think I’d do all that and you’d still deny me the pleasure of whisking your soul away to the Barrows!” He feigned offense.

“Speaking of the Barrows…” the World Guardian’s eyes narrowed on him, “What did you give Lowerniel Drakan in return for that land?”

“Victory.” Sliske answered, very quickly.

“What…?” She clearly didn’t understand what he meant.

“I made sure that the invaders fell apart before reaching Darkmeyer,” he explained, “and in exchange, ‘Lord’ Drakan gave me permission to use that land for their graves.

“Of course, he had no idea I was using it to house a relic that would sap prayer energy from everything around it, nor that it would facilitate Zaros’s return.

“And, funnily enough, the Barrows is exactly where I was when I first caught wind of you. Hence the ‘stalking’, as you put it. Let me show you.”

The Mahjarrat snapped his fingers, and the disembodied voices of both present spoke together; _“Date: thirteenth Rintra, year 164 of the ‘Fifth’ Age.”_ the date had been marked in the journal. _“Sepulchre? Really? Is this the key at last? I must watch and see.”_

  
‘Death at Sea’ was the label on the journal she’d read that in. Sepulchre had lost more hours of sleep dreading the contents of those pages than she'd lost in fear of the Mahjarrat who wrote them. Her mind was dominated by the questions burning in the back of her head; she had to know more.

“Sliske? Did you ever… did you ever find out anything else about the Glory of Zaros incident?”

The Mahjarrat gave her a troubled side-eye, “I did not. There was nothing else to be found after Lygrass perished. I had wished to pick that mystery back up at some point…”

“Do you remember the day you… first heard my name?” she asked.

The environment shifted to what Sepulchre recognized as the Senntisten Asylum. She had only ever seen it in ruins, but to see it in its prime - it truly was a marvel of masonry.

They stood at the furthest end of an isolated hallway. Sliske, accompanied by another Mahjarrat and several attendants, peered into the darkness of the corridor’s final cell.

Behind heavy bars and wearing a heavier jacket was a crazed-looking Gustaf Johannes. His left leg had been taken off at the knee and his right foot was half-gone. Catching sight of the visitors, he slithered his way up the bars and looked dead into Sliske’s eyes - at first.

In a clear divergence from Sliske’s memory - judging from the confusion in his eyes, at least - Johannes, Nabor, and the asylum attendants all spun around to face the World Guardian, who did not exist in this memory.

Johannes mouthed the words, but the deep, unnatural voice came not from his lips. _“Do you really think you can save them, Sepulchre? You can’t. The spiral of time leads only to the gaping maw of eternity. And this is Xau-Tak.”_

The infinite white of her mind-space faded to black in an instant, a darkness so complete that even Sliske, master of shadows, paled ever so slightly.

Without warning, the World Guardian felt her brain spasming violently, throwing itself around in her head, trying to escape her skull. She dropped to her knees, clutching her head through the sheer agony as her brain convulsed within its containment. The thought of screaming was beyond her capabilities in this state.

With each passing second the pain grew exponentially worse as her gray matter grew more and more violent, beginning to crack the insides of her skull as it floundered around inside.

Pain did not permit sufficient time to process fear before she felt her brain shatter her skull, breaking free from the confinement she forced upon it. She let out a blood-curdling, spine-chilling shriek as she crumpled to the floor.

The darkness faded back to white.

The World Guardian’s eyes crept open, seeing only the face of her once-worst enemy looking down upon her. _Was none of it real?_

Sliske’s face answered the question for her.

Neither was brave enough to speak on the subject any further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'Xau-Tak' part feels a little self-indulgent, I'll admit, but you can't deny that there's a strong connection between Sliske, the Shadow Realm and Xau-Tak somewhere in this jumbled mess of lore over the past 5 years. While it is over-the-top, it's also a brand of foreshadowing (get it?).  
> Staying accurate to the Sliske from Endgame while also having it make sense was hard, but I think I got there in the end. Sliske was just following his nature and every lesson Freneskae had taught him, making himself more and more insane because of it. The Mahjarrat are a race that thrive on conflict, it's the reason Zamorak's philosophy exists, and Sliske's motivation here was very similar.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sliske turns the tables, making Sepulchre face her own reality - she’s no different from him. Her past is filled with hate and her future with loneliness and fear. Things calm down as he finds sympathy, same as she did. Eventually, satisfied with their conversation, the duo decides it is time for a choice to be made: will Sepulchre allow the Mahjarrat to share a soul with her, or is this the end for the Master of Shadows?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just couldn't do it, could I? I couldn't do a fic without throwing in some exposition about my own OC.  
> In truth, this is very in-character for Sliske, even the version not wearing any masks. Turnabout is fair play, and Sliske doesn't want to be alone in pouring out his heart within this soul-space. The two of them are very alike, and perhaps that was fates intention all along?

“So, World Guardian,” the Mahjarrat prodded his host, “now that I’ve taken off my masks, I believe it’s only fair that you do the same.”

She raised an eyebrow, playing at confusion, but Sliske was not fooled. “Do not feign ignorance, Sepulchre. You and I aren’t so different at our cores; driven by loneliness, hatred and fear. Putting a smile on our face and pretending that everything is okay - we are both masters of this craft.”

This truth brought a certain pain to her face that cannot be described, only felt.

“Perhaps we should start with your upbringing? Being raised by the same vampyre who was using you as his living drink dispenser must’ve been fun!” He imitated drinking from an invisible cup.

“You were kept sheltered from the awful truths of Vampyre society, all alone in Myrmel’s manor, so as to keep your blood to his tastes. Not that it really worked, did it? You still saw everything; that’s why you ran away, after all.”

Sliske had seen everything; he knew more about her than she did about herself. “Of course, that vampyre ‘parentage’ is the reason you’ve become what you are today, and not just because he left his ‘mark’ on you either…

“That’s right. I know how you experiment on yourself, my dear, fearlessly injecting yourself with concoctions of your own design. I know that haemalchemy has allowed you to tap deeper into the shallow well of vampyrism that runs through your veins.” He turned his hand palm-up, bringing with it an illusory bottle, filled with blood.

“It allows your use of that vampyrism to make you even stronger, faster and more perceptive than it once did. It pushes you well beyond the limits any mere human could achieve. But that’s not all it does anymore, is it?”

“No. It’s not.” Sepulchre’s eyelids dropped to conceal the metaphorical windows to her soul.

In an instant they slid up again, displaying the crimson rings dancing between the white and black of those windows, “If I use it for too long, I… I feel it. The hunger.” Her eyes betrayed deep regret. “It’s almost nothing compared to what vampyrised humans felt, but there’s a hint of a whisper in the back of my mind, tempting me to… feed.”

Sepulchre shook her head, “Though that’s not what you’re referring to, is it?”

The Mahjarrat shook his hooded head, prompting her next guess.

“You’re referring to my faux-immortality?” she surmised.

“Oh yes,” he confirmed with a nod. “Unlike mine, your race has a depressingly minuscule lifespan of about, what, one-hundred years?”

He threw up a hand, four fingers extended. “But you? Oh you’ll quadruple that, easily. I mean just look at you!” Sliske ran those four fingers down his rough, gray cheek in near-envy of the contrastively youthful skin upon hers. “You’re thirty-three years old and still look the same as you did at nineteen! Nobody knows when you’ll externally age again, if you ever will.

“Not only is that tremendously unfair, it’s also the reason you’re still alone! All your human friends, your dwarf friends, goblins, even the gnomes - you’ll outlive them all by centuries.” This truth brought an ironic smile to his face. He had not realized how truly alike they were until this very moment.

“Sure you might have your vampyric and your elven companions, the Mahjarrat as well, no doubt… but at the end of the day, nobody truly understands what it’s like to be you.”

His words rang true, and the sorrow that had manifested throughout her entire form showed it. Sliske had admitted to everything, so in his eyes, it was only fair that she do the same.

“It’s not as if your past was any better, was it?”

She was silent. They both knew he knew the answer, why bother interrupting?

“At the tender age of eleven, you found yourself a new addition to the Year 164 census in the city of Varrock,” Sliske went on. “However, word spreads quickly in packed cities, and it wasn’t long before the people of Varrock knew your origins: The ‘Cursed Lands.’

“Most didn’t care, but some others…” his voice darkened, “Some others began to look down on you, to scorn you, to vilify you, especially after that idiotic ploy by Prince Tenebra.” Humans always hated vampyres, Sliske knew, they have ever since the Empire. 

“To them, you were some kind of monster. Surely you were a vampyre in disguise, some kind of agent, here to make sure humanity was ripe for the picking. Maybe you were a failed experiment, some dangerous mutant freak that the Morytanians would rather be rid of? No, you were an infected human, sent here to spread the diseases of lycanthropy and vampyrism into the wider world!

“Whatever you were, you certainly didn’t belong among ‘society.’ They wanted you exiled, imprisoned or killed, they didn’t care which, so long as they didn’t have to see you ever again.”

Sepulchre’s countenance reverted to that despised little girl’s sullen glare, but Sliske was intent on making her face her whole truth.

“You were called ‘cursed girl,’ ‘spawn of Zamorak,’ or ‘blood-child’.” each moniker made her wince. “They’d come to the Blue Moon and purposely order things with ‘extra garlic,’ even if the dish had none, and if they went upstairs they’d hang silver Saradomin Stars across your door.”

The Mahjarrat understood her pain a little too well, and it began to make him feel uncomfortable. “The point here, Valenthia, is that you were hated for things beyond your control, just as I was.”

Sliske paused to let her speak, but she stayed silent.

Instead, a single tear came to her eye. Her mental sanctum was ravaged by memories of jeers, insults, hateful looks, whispers, name-calling, and, following the Wyrd attacks, violence.

As it always had, as it likely always will, the misery twisted itself into anger. She _hated_ them all; she never _stopped_ hating them, and she _never_ will.

“I think you can guess the last point I was going to make...” Sliske seemed hesitant to push much further, though he also appeared a bit confused as well.

“Fear,” her voice shook just a little. “My position as World Guardian.”

His silence was confirmation enough. “I’ve been tasked with quelling the wrath of gods, ascended beings against whom I am ultimately powerless.

“Guthix gave me all of the responsibility, but almost none of the power. I wake up every morning, terrified to open my eyes. Terrified to find that Lord Zamorak has launched an invasion of Falador, that Saradomin has started up his crusade, or that Lord Zaros has decided he wants his Empire back.

“It’s not as if I have any room to complain, either,” she lamented, “I gave him the idea by fucking around with time to restore Seren - It’s _my_ fault...” She turned her back to him, unable to bear these thoughts any longer. Sliske had spent millennia bandaging the wounds over his heart; hers were still too fresh.

  
For the first time in millennia, Sliske felt something akin to sympathy. _Alone, unwanted and afraid._ The words echoed through his mind. _How is it that two creatures, two people who are so very much alike in every way, can be made enemies? Fate truly is a cruel mistress. Why, if this girl were born only a millennium earlier, or even many millennia ago..._

He felt a strange desire to lift her spirits.

“Perhaps one of those is to your benefit,” he mused aloud, “because if Zaros does decide he wants that Empire back, you will live in luxury. You have been almost unerringly loyal, you’re an unmatched warrior among your race, and you’re daughter to a former Legatus. You’re almost guaranteed to be appointed that same rank.”

Confusion broke her depressive stupor. “Daughter of a… what are you talking about?”

He laughed as she turned back to face him. He was unaware that she was unaware. “You did not know? Twenty-third Legate of the Imperial Army of Zaros: Legatus Myrmel.”

The more he thought about it, the less sense it made to him. “Mischa has truly never told you?” he asked.

The World Guardian shook her head.

Another chuckle, “Well, you may not be his actual child, but a very small part of the blood in your veins _is_ his. You are, for all intents and purposes, the daughter of the twenty-third Legate.”

An image of Lord Mischa Myrmel was shown for a brief moment beside him, bearing a Zarosian crest with the Demonic numeral ‘twenty-three’.

“You really do know a lot about me, don’t you?” the World Guardian commented. “I suppose you have seen my memories, but…” Her vision hastily zeroed in on the Mahjarrat, “Just how closely had you been ‘following my progress’ Sliske??”

His roguish nature took over. “What’s the matter, Valenthia? Worried I might have been watching from the shadows while you were in bed alone at night?” He wore a mischievous smirk. “Worse yet, perhaps I was watching while you were in bed _not_ alone?”

With her cheeks beginning to match her blood red hair, the glare intensified.

For fear she’d attempt to kill him again, he reassured her, “As much fun as it would be to blackmail you with the saucy details of any indecent and/or amorous actions I’ve witnessed, I regrettably have no such knowledge.

“I’ve only watched a few of your exploits firsthand, Sepulchre. To save us both some time, allow me to give you the highlight reel.” he motioned behind her.

First, phantoms of Ozan and Leela appeared next to her, with an image of Amascut standing before them. _This was when the Devourer stole the Kharid-ib,_ the World Guardian recalled.

Next, an imaginary catapult was brought to life. A barrel launched from it towards something unseen, deep in the woods; her assassination of King Tyras.

After that came the walls and bars of a prison, images of many pirates accompanying them; the prelude to the fall of Rabid Jack.

Her visit to the Forge of Camdozaal. Fighting Solus Dellagar in the Rune Essence mine. Hiking with Golrana through the Galarpos. Meeting the TokHaar deep under Karamja. Her defeat of Lowerniel Drakan atop his own castle. Moving the Saradomin statue from Falador to Varrock.

Only brief still images of each moment were brought forth, yet they came as vivid memories, as though each one had happened only yesterday.

“Aside from those and a few others,” Sliske continued, “I was only actually present during the adventures I had sent you on.” He beckoned her to face him once more.

She blinked, clearly not taking his meaning. “What adventures have you ever sent me on, aside from, well, the ones you tricked or forced me into?”

He looked almost insulted, cocking his head slightly to one side. “You did not honestly think that Asgarnia Smith - a good friend of your adoptive uncle Anthony Robinson - showed up in the desert at the same time as you, holding a tablet speaking of Azzanadra… by coincidence?

“Surely you realized that my assassin would have to be a fool, looking for help to steal that relic in a place that hardly anybody visits? A place that you yourself had been frequenting the past few months at the time?

“And you can’t tell me ‘Dr. Nabanik’ learning about Nex’s release just in time for you to receive the message as you arrived at Ghorrock, very near the location of her prison, truly did not strike you as odd?

“What about Isis’s vision of Char’s cave, leading her to those mountains where she unearthed the entrance almost in tandem with you working in the area?”

Slow realization overtook the World Guardian, “You… lined all of those up… so that I would be there...?”

“Ladies and gentlemen we have a winner!” The Mahjarrat exclaimed to some non-existent audience. “Indeed. Your name was known to me millennia ago, couple that with your digging up Senntisten and the choice was obvious. I decided that you should be the one to free old Azzy from his prison.

“I did not expect he would make you his favored agent upon release, but that was reason enough to force the rest of the work upon you.”

Sliske blinked, remembering his purpose here. He was both serious and restless, “We’ve chatted long enough,” he said, very matter-of-fact. “Time may not matter in this space, but eventually your ‘real’ self _will_ pull the Siphon out of her.”

Sepulchre nodded; she had to make a decision, and she had to make it now.

“Am I in,” Sliske questioned, “or am I out?”  
  


“I think the answer is obvious, Sliske,” she admitted. “My conscious self will be confused though, so you’ll have to explain all of this to me… again.”

He nodded, for he had known this all along. “Until then, she’ll be enjoying the benefits of having me attached to her soul.

“Hopefully, that will warm her up to the idea,” he said with blatant cynicism.

“Benefits?” Sepulchre asked, trying not to sound too excited.

“Yes, Valenthia,” he chuckled wryly, “you and I are going to be friends _with benefits_.”

“Funny, Sliske,” she rolled her eyes. “So, you get to stay here and _not_ fade away into nothingness for all eternity. What is it that I’m getting out of this, aside from a potential voice in my head?” she asked.

“When Hazeel inadvertently ‘activated’ the blood mark that Mischa Myrmel put on you, he caused the blood of your former owner - which was contained within said mark - to flow freely through your body,” Sliske explained. “That blood now does everything that blood should, like replicate itself and supply your insides with the essentials you need to live; but, it is kept separate from your own. Bit of a paradox, I know.

“In addition to all the things we’ve already discussed, this vampyric blood gives you an innate propensity for ancient Blood magic, something that all Vampyres have.”

The World Guardian interrupted. “What does this have to do with my ‘benefits’ though?” she asked, clearly confused.

“While your body contains a barely decent amount of vampyric blood, my very essence is almost entirely in tune with the Shadows,” the Mahjarrat clarified, “meaning my affinity for Shadow magic is much more potent than your affinity for Blood magic.”

The World Guardian tilted her head.

“Oh, Zaros above, must I explain everything to you?” Sliske groaned, slightly impatient. “When my essence affixes itself to your soul, you will gain my affinity for the Shadows.”

“All of it??” she blurted out, the excitement not so well hidden this time.

He raised an eyebrow. “Not immediately, but yes, for the most part.”

“Not immediately?”

“Well of course not,” he replied, feigning exasperation. “Your soul and my essence won’t fuse wholly overnight, you know. Granted, you’ll be able to channel and manipulate the shadows much more easily, and entering the Shadow Realm will become second nature in no time at all.

“However, you must understand, Sepulchre, that despite how easy I make it look, some forms of Shadow magic are impossibly intricate. My rich natural proclivity has been honed over millennia, but there are still many things I cannot do.”

He beckoned for close attention. “I know you well enough to understand what you’re thinking; you want to free your friends trapped at the Barrows. Do not mistake my magics for those of that charlatan Zemouregal, World Guardian. His binding of Arrav was laughable, barely qualifying as shadow magic at all by my standards.

“Even with my powers, you will need years, decades, maybe even a century of practice before you can fully undo the binds that I have placed on Linza, Akrisae, or even Verac and his brothers.”

He entertained a thought for a moment. “On the other side of that coin, you could, I suppose, create very poorly bound wights within a few years. _Maybe_ in a few decades you _might_ be able to bind a single wight the way I have bound those eight. But for now, give up on the idea.”

“Perhaps that’s for the better,” she concluded. “You once told me that the power the Stone gave was addicting, and I believe that’s true of any power. Becoming addicted to power isn’t exactly my cuppa.”

“Oh I don’t think I believe that,” Sliske criticized, “you spend more time trying to find an edge over the rest of the world than even I do.”

“How do you figure that??” she demanded, clearly wound up by his accusation.

“Well, putting aside the haemalchemy - which you very clearly used for that purpose - there’s that sickly-black potion you’ve concocted. The one that nearly gives you a seizure every time you drink it? What other purpose could that possibly serve?” he pointed out, with some hint of disapproval.

“What about how you chant those old Zarosian invocations, calling to the shadows to lay blessings upon you? Have you also forgotten, then, your use of divine energy to alter and add to the properties of your armaments?

“You even took advantage of Guthix’s gift and the Stone of Jas to empower yourself enough to kill little old me!” He was so insincere in his griping that it actually hurt.

“Well, if this is how you’re going to treat me, I’m not letting you into my soul!” She folded her arms and turned away in overly theatrical protest.

“Oh no please, miss Sepulchre!” He hurriedly shuffled around to the direction she was facing. “Please I beg of you, I have nowhere else to go! I’ll do anything, anything at all!”

The World Guardian very seriously considered this new offer, “Anything, you say...?”

“Yes, anything,” he cried desperately, dropping to his knees, “I’ll be your partner, or your assistant! Your servant, your slave, even! Just don’t kick me out onto the streets! A man like me could never survive out there!”

For a brief second there was silence…

Before the sounds of laughter steadily arose from both the Mahjarrat and the World Guardian. Quiet chuckles quickly morphed into hearty laughs. Neither one of them had the slightest clue why they’d broken out into such stage play - and neither particularly cared, either.

No longer was there contempt or hostility between these two kindred spirits, only mutual respect and amity. Sliske and the World Guardian had, for the first time, genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. There was no more reason to delay.

Once their laughter had died down, the World Guardian asked the question she likely should have at the very start. “So, Sliske, I suppose I should’ve asked this earlier, but, how do I actually ‘let you’ into my soul?”

Sliske took a moment to remember the answer himself. “The Magister’s studies suggest that somewhere in this ‘soul-space’ - the mind’s way of interpreting this passageway to the soul - exists a giant central structure amongst the emptiness, which has… some sort of entrance?”

Sliske did not seem entirely certain. Whatever study written by Magister Oreb he was referring to, he had likely only read it over once.

“I had been planning to break in,” he noted, “but if you’re just going to hold the door open for me…”

Without a word, Sepulchre walked past him, towards what she believed would be the right direction. She gestured for him to follow.

“How do you know that’s the right way?” he asked, clearly in doubt of her navigational skills.

“I don’t have to know,” she retorted, “it’s _my_ soul.”

* * *

Sure enough, finding the doorway to her own psyche proved a trivial matter.

Just as Sliske had read, there was indeed a central structure. Sepulchre and Sliske stood together at the base of a never-ending gray tower. This unchanging pillar had no variation in color, was smooth all around, and had no temperature.

Not a single thing existed on this monotone column, save for a blank white door, which also shared those same qualities. These were not made of a substance, but nor were they illusory - they simply… were.

“See?” she declared triumphantly.

“Yes, I see that your soul is the single most boring thing I’ve ever laid eyes upon,” he commented with a snicker.

“I’m sure it looks better than yours,” she jibed, pulling the ‘door’ open. “Now hurry up and get in, before I change my mind and kick you out.

“Oh, and Sliske?” She caught his shoulder before he could take a step.

He brought his gaze towards her, met with the warmest smile he had ever seen. “Thank you for being honest with me. I hope we get the chance to talk again; you and the ‘real’ me, that is”

Sliske actually returned the smile, saying, “I don’t think I can handle another round of talking about ‘feelings’, though. It made me horribly nauseous.”

“Nice try, Sliske.” She gave his shoulder a light squeeze. “But we both know Mahjarrat don’t have stomachs; you _can’t_ get nauseous. I expect the full story when this happens again.”

Though he feigned a very exaggerated silent protest, her hand released its grip and fell to her side. The World Guardian gestured him forward.

Any attempt to describe what Sliske saw beyond the doorway would be pointless. The soul is not meant to be gazed upon with mortal eyes, nor comprehended by mortal minds. Suffice it to say that Sliske did not dare attempt to process even a fraction of it for himself, fully aware how futile it would be. Even the great Magister of House Charron had only seen a form that his mind was able to fathom, for seeing the truth was an impossibility.

Sliske briefly recounted his life one last time, in his own mind. Every emotion he had ever felt flooded back to him at once. Anger and loneliness were the predominant sentiments in that complex mixture, a source of no small regret for the Mahjarrat.

He turned to give a last glance to the ‘subconscious’ of the World Guardian, only to find that she had vanished. She could find him in the empty white soul-space, she could drag him here to the nexus between the soul-space and her soul, and she could hold the door open.

But to enter was a choice he had to make alone.

There was hesitation in his heart. He was second-guessing so much of the plan he’d worked so hard for. Would he be consciously aware, would he remember himself, or would he just be absorbed into the World Guardian’s consciousness? If he was going to fade away, was it all for naught?

 _I’ll let her know that I’m aware,_ he decided. _Maybe give her a good scare, for old times sake. I recall her thinking I had a distinct laugh. That should suffice._

The Mahjarrat took in a deep, unsteady breath, holding it for several seconds. He exhaled steadily. He was ready.

He took a step forward, breaching the barrier into her soul. The door closed behind him, and then…

There was no door. There was no pillar. There was no white ‘soul-space.’ There was nothing. In some abstract way, however, there _was_ Sliske.

By allowing him inside, the World Guardian had given Sliske everything he ever wanted. Her soul would be his afterlife, her adventures would keep him entertained, and sooner or later, she would be making sure he was never alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that was... a ride. Sliske is inside the World Guardian now (not like that, get your mind out of the gutter), but who knows what exactly that means?  
> Well, if you've played Runescape recently, you know that we aren't meant to be aware of it quite yet, and the same is true in this story - Sepulchre has no idea!  
> Originally, this was the final chapter of the fic, but I really ended up loving epilogues between then and now...


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years after the events of Sliske's game, the World Guardian must meet a new challenge from the shadows - the strongest challenge she has ever faced. This is not a foe she can take on alone; fortunately, she is never alone. In the years since his "death", Sliske has revealed himself to Sepulchre, and likely repeated the conversations he had with her subconscious. They are no longer enemies, but instead they are allies in the fight against the supposed "inevitability" of the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooooookay, this epilogue is something else.  
> I don't know how the epilogue to a story about Sliske turned into me writing Ragnarök in Runescape, but here it is. Jagex already gave me four of the key players to what Ragnarök is supposed to be: the three warg and the World Serpent. Ever since we learned about the Shadow Leviathan at RF2018, I've fantasized about it being an epic boss fight (of course, the budget to make it would be insane), and it felt like a good opponent for Sepulchre to need help from Sliske against.  
> The Fremennik prophecy 'the End of Things' is probably related to Ragnarök, and we had already heard the first line from it from Eir. Don't ask me why I made the prophecy rhyme, it just happened.

_Many Years Later..._

_You are overthinking this, World Guardian._

Already short of breath and sapped of vigor, the World Guardian stared into the dark portal with dread leaking from every pore in her body. _This is it,_ she told herself, _through that portal, there are no second chances._

To an observer, it would appear that Sepulchre had sprinted her way to the shadow portal deep below the Eastern sea, or at least swam with all haste, exhausting herself. In truth, she had traveled at a comfortable pace, and it was not fatigue that drained what little color she had on her face - it was a terror that entwined around her heart.

  
Three days ago, Gielinor shook; not just a kingdom, not just a region, not just the mainland. **All** of Gielinor shook for an entire minute. The World Guardian was in the middle of consulting with various learned figures from around the world the very next day, when **she** came.

Eir, who the World Guardian had previously met only in the afterlife, had returned to the surface to prevent the coming cataclysm. ‘Jartin Far-strider’ was needed to fulfill another prophecy passed down by her people. The legendary wolf Fenrir had risen near Rellekka; his child Hati attacked the Lunar Isle, and his other child, Sköll, rampaged in the city of Menaphos. It was the prophecy Eir had warned her about in the Great Longhall - the End of Things. The prophecy read:

When god fights god, and every field is drenched with heroes’ blood  
The hounds come to consume the Sun, Moon, and Stars; a prelude to the flood  
The Sun’s Son and the Moon’s Daughter shall rise to defend their fathers  
The Stars’ hope lies in that which never dies, the life of whom they foster  
The Earth and Sea tremble, Jörmungor’s rise will force defenders to relent  
Unless met below the waves by Jörvǫrðr, the ascended Good Intent  
Beneath the surface battle, and Jörvǫrðr’s victory is guaranteed  
By Jörmungor’s death, all the world shall be freed  
For nine days and nights the wyrm’s poison will ferment  
And when they end, let all lament  
The death of Good Intent

Able to speak Fremennik, the World Guardian knew that Jörvǫrðr roughly meant ‘World-guard’, which referred to herself. The previous prophecy had called her ‘Good Intent’, and the ‘World-guard’ was called ‘the ascended Good Intent’ in this prophecy, in reference to her empowerment by Guthix.

Jörmungor was not familiar to her, but Eir’s description of it was. A wyrm that was so large it could wrap itself around entire worlds, whose sole desire was to consume all light and life in the universe. Zaros had once spoken to her of such a creature: the Shadow Leviathan, a colossal wyrm that exists only in the Shadow Realm. Was it trying to breach into this world?

 _The Shadow Breach?_ the World Guardian had wondered. _Could it be that this prophecy, ‘the End of Things’, was simply the Fremennik recording one of Guthix’s three ultimate threats to existence? Could he have predicted these Wolf-Colossi as well?_ Whether it was foresight or coincidence, the prophecy clearly stated that she would have to fight it beneath the sea.  
  


Ulthven Kreath was the most logical location. The portal that Kranon had opened likely led directly to the Shadow Realm, and if the Leviathan was trying to enter the material realm, that portal would suit its needs perfectly.

Stepping through the portal did not scare her, she’d become accustomed to walking in the Shadow Realm. Fighting the Shadow Leviathan gave her some pause, but when you’ve stood before the Elder Gods, it’s hard to be in awe of anything. What bothered her was the last three lines of the prophecy, which were not nearly as vague as the last Fremennik prophecy she’d fulfilled.

‘The death of Good Intent.’ _Her own_ death.

 _You are overthinking this, World Guardian,_ the voice in her head reiterated, less patient than the first time. _The last prophecy those barbarians made up about you was vague nonsense that hardly applied at all._

 _But what if it’s not nonsense?_ she retorted, _what if I really_ ** _am_** _meant to die here? We both know Death can’t save me if my soul is destroyed, and if I die deep in the Shadow Realm, it will be…_

 _Which isn’t a problem if you_ **_don’t die_** _, Sepulchre!_ Her head throbbed as a result of his ‘yelling’. _You’ve fought creatures of shadow before, you’ve fought back against the very embodiment of the Shadows itself, but you’re still here, aren’t you?_

She was unsure if this was him being motivational or if he were just chastising her.

_And before you even conceive the thought ‘but Sliske, that was different’, I will inform you that yes, it was different. It was different because you fought Kranon and Raksha_ **_without_ ** _my help._

The World Guardian grumbled to herself. _I wish you had been there for Kranon. Remember, I had resigned my soul to oblivion at his hands… before Seiryu dove in and saved me._

 _Yes, I recall it being rather pathetic,_ he chided, _so do try not to embarrass me by doing it again._

_Now, before you become all mopey and boo-hoo over it, might I suggest you turn your attention to the reason we’re here?_

Sepulchre held the shadow-sword ‘Sepulcrumbra’ in her left hand, borrowed from the friend she gifted it to. It was forged from Kreathite, a black metal she helped create, which was aetherium with dragon metal mixed in. The dragon metal was infused with shadow magic to complete the alchemical fusion, giving the metal its black-purple appearance. The blade had pierced Raksha’s hide and even severed fingers from the Black Stone hands.

In her right was the legendary Shield of Arrav, which served to protect its wielder from any magics. Potent shadow magics were only partially negated, but given her body can only withstand so much Shadow anima, the shield was a godsend.

 _You’re certain you can keep me safe so deep into the Shadow Realm?_ she questioned, nervous.

 _Not indefinitely - nine days is impossible, if that’s what you’re asking. Yet another reason that prophecy is complete rubbish,_ he noted, still harping on about her beliefs. _Nine_ **_hours_** _is a more realistic measurement for how long you’ll be protected._

Taking in all the air her lungs could hold, the World Guardian closed her eyes. _If we’re going into half-state, then I should be able to freely manipulate space with shadow magic_ **_that far_ ** _in the Sea of Shadows, right?_

 _Below Freneskae? You wouldn’t even need to go into half-state for that. Just by my essence being attached to your soul, you’re already made more in-tune to the shadows than any mortal could ever be,_ he explained. _Once you reach the densest parts of the Shadow Realm, your power over shadows will become essentially godlike from that alone._

Hearing Sliske’s voice helped her draw on it; his divine energy that fused itself into her soul. The goal was a half-possession of sorts, and it took practice.

_That form is only necessary if you need my direct intervention. It’s the only way I can handle tasks such as keeping up a barrier to prevent the overwhelming toxicity of Shadow anima from making your body rapidly decay._

_Presumably, that’s what would happen if I tried to do this without you,_ she reasoned.

 _Listen to me carefully World Guardian,_ Sliske said in an uncommonly grave tone.

 _While I’m keeping up that barrier, my focus is split,_ he warned. __Under normal circumstances, I could act for you while my essence is in ‘half-control’. We essentially share the reins to your body, giving you two sets of senses to work with.__

 _You’re saying that won’t be the case here, then?_ she sighed.

 _Valenthia._ Sliske only used her birth name when he was deadly serious. _I worry that you may be taking the Leviathan too lightly. There is something I wish to show you before you step through that portal. I wish to show you what I saw of the creature called ‘Jörmungor’._

  
Initially, her mind’s eye saw only a motionless mass of colors. The colors were not unlike the saturation of Raksha’s scales - purples, blues and greens that all appeared like they should be black, but showed colors within.

The endless wall of colors shifted to the side; only then did the World Guardian think to turn her vision skyward. The normally unflappable adventurer let out a whimper of horror as her reality became clear. When Sepulchre stood before Jas for the first time, she told herself no living creature in existence could be so massive as the Elder Gods - she believed it, too, until now.

The concentration of color in her sights was, in fact, a fraction of the creature she dove into the ocean to confront. A gargantuan and otherworldly mouth of shadowed scales, equaling Castle Drakan in size, opened before her. The whimper was not in response to that; her whimper came when she laid eyes upon the corner of the second gaping maw that enwrapped the first.

‘Leviathan’ did not do the creature justice, no single word could do such a thing justice. This immeasurable wyrm could swallow not only Castle Drakan, but **_all_ ** of Darkmeyer whole. She was not tasked with slaying a mighty creature, she was charged with conquering destruction itself.

The sheer size of the Leviathan was not her greatest source of fear - it was the hatred. It was the antagonism and the hostility that radiated from the creature that sent a constant stream of shivers up her spine. There was intelligence behind it, much like there was behind Raksha, but as it was thousands of times larger than Raksha, so too was its malice.

Varanus had described Raksha as ‘diabolical’, in reference to its disdain for all living things. Raksha, at least, looked for freedom. There was nothing here but a desire to snuff out light, to bring annihilation to all things, to end all life that is, was and ever will be. The Leviathan was malevolence incarnate.

  
Sepulchre took a step back, away from the portal. Already the foretelling of her demise frightened her, but her courage to face death now drifted off into the Eastern sea behind the barriers. Any prophecy claiming she could triumph over that _thing_ was, as Sliske put it, rubbish. She very nearly turned to flee from the temple altogether, but his voice grounded her.

_Don’t you dare think of running away now._

_Have you lost your godsdamn mind?!_ she cried, silently, eyes still closed. _I can’t fight_ _that! Nobody can fight that! That_ ** _thing_** _could devour all of Gielinor in seconds! I’ll fight Dragonkin, I’ll fight Mahjarrat. Hell, I’ll fight Gods, but I will not—_

 _You’ve_ **_already_** _fought all those things,_ he interjected, _and you’ve already_ ** _beaten them_** _._

_I fear you’ve entirely missed the point of the display, Sepulchre. My intention was not to scare you away; in fact, it was the exact opposite._

_How exactly does that work??_ she huffed.

_Simple. Now that its enormous size and abundant spite has become known to you, you won’t be blown off your feet when you encounter it in reality. Despite its size and intimidating presence, the Shadow Leviathan is closer to Kranon than it is to a god._

_But I only beat Kranon because of Seiryu,_ she reminded him, _and if that’s true, why does it have to be me who fights it? Why doesn’t Lord Zaros come down here and do it?_

 _Because the Shadow Leviathan’s greatest strength is not its own power,_ rejoined the Mahjarrat in her head, _its greatest strength is the Shadows around it. Even Zaros would be risking much to confront the Shadow Leviathan at the very deepest end of the Shadow Realm._

_The only person who can fight it on even ground is someone who is not harmed by the toxic shadows, and who has the same mastery of the Shadow Realm as it does._

**_You_** _, World Guardian, are the_ **_ONLY_** _living creature who can hope to defeat the Shadow Leviathan,_ Sliske’s voice clarified.

“No, Sliske. _WE_ are the only creature who can hope to _kill_ it.” she corrected, finally lifting her eyelids.

The transformation into their half-possession state was complete. When her eyes opened, the left iris was crimson where once it was green. This was merely her vampyrism manifesting as it always had. It was her right eye that told the real story. Her sclera had darkened to a pitch-black, and sat in this void of an eyeball was only a single circle, iris and pupil now tinted the same color.

Her right eye had not turned green nor red; it had turned yellow, because it was not just the World Guardian’s eye anymore.

_If that’s how you want to say it, then so be it._

  
Calmed down and with eyes that pierced the veil, the World Guardian redirected her stare back to the shadow portal. “Let’s get this over with.”

_Remember, Valenthia, the Shield won’t protect you nearly as much in the Shadow Realm. Don’t rely on it unless you have to. I don’t need any more stress on the barrier than it will already have._

“Noted,” she replied. Sepulchre took a step down onto the lower stone ring around the portal.

“Hey, Sliske?”

_What is it now?_

“Thank you.” A very slight smile formed from her lips.

_Save your gratitude for_ **_after_** _the Leviathan is dead, World Guardian._

“I’m not just thanking you for this,” she remarked. “I mean thank you for… being with me all these years, consciously. You didn’t have to; you could’ve just stayed hidden in my soul until I died, then cruised into the afterlife with me.”

 _Do you have any idea how boring that would be??_ he exclaimed, clearly irked by the suggestion. _I’ve spent hours watching you waste your life inventing useless toys that you’ve never touched again, and I don’t even know what most of them do! I’ve watched you mix potions for hours on end, blathering on with words that I’d never heard until I melded myself into you!_

“All the more reason to thank you for sticking around then,” Sepulchre chuckled. “You had to deal with that for over half a decade without a way to tell me how boring it was!”

_Yes, and I deserve more than mere thanks for that! Saradomin himself could not come out the other end of such an ordeal with his sanity!_

“Yet you put yourself through it, all for me?” she feigned admiration. “Why, Sliske, if I didn’t know any better, I’d have to assume that’s a show of af—”

 _Finish that sentence, Sepulchre, and see if I don’t just let the Leviathan eat us both,_ the once-Mahjarrat cut her off.

“Spoilsport.” The World Guardian pouted at nobody.

_Barrier is up, World Guardian. Get in the portal so this conversation can end._

With a momentary cackle, she leapt into the portal below.

* * *

What exactly the World Guardian and Sliske saw once she entered the Shadow Realm is anybody’s guess, as is what exactly happened in the battle between Jörvǫrðr and Jörmungor. A battle between World Guardian and World Serpent must be a sight to behold, and anything written about the battle would surely rival the Epic of Bukalla and the Ballad of the Basilisk.

For nine days after Jartin Far-strider set sail from the isle of Mos Le’Harmless, the Fremennik who opted to see her off would sit by the southern shoreline, awaiting her return. Thok Thokson, Manni the Reveller, King Vargas and Queen Sigrid, Larravak, Haakon, and more.

They sat and did as Fremennik always do; they drank, ate, sang, told stories, and fought. The pirates and Fremennik got along quite well, if you can believe it. Each day, their morale lowered, as it became more and more likely that the prophecy would be fulfilled.

On the ninth day, after nine hours and at the ninth round of drinks, the skiff their champion sailed was spotted on the horizon. In the way that only the Fremennik can, they erupted into cheers and songs of celebration for their returning sister, who had slayed the terrible Jörmungor and averted the End of Things. A great beast was put over the fire and the finest mead was poured, all while the roar of victory filled the air.

Merriment rose to a thunderous crescendo as the mist around the vessel that carried their hero began to clear… Only to be dragged down into the abyss when no more fog shrouded the boat - the _empty_ boat - drifting its way ashore.

Even the crackle of the fire ceased from this moment until the boat touched shore. Bill Teach, who had been made curious by the raucous Fremennik, stepped forward to examine the vessel. A grim nod turned silence into soft murmurs of respect and mourning. There was no mistaking it; this was the rowboat Sepulchre, ‘Jartin’, took out to sea.

That it returned, vacant, on the ninth day, was a somber sign from the spirits.

The Prophecy, ‘the death of Good Intent’, had come to pass.

Sepulchre, The World Guardian, was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See what I mean about it being something else? Last chapter we were all sharing memories in a soul-space, now the World Guardian is dead. Is she actually dead? Probably not, but that's what the ending tells you! I might write something to follow up on that ending, to explain what exactly happened to her.  
> This whole chapter is very subject to change in official canon, and I probably will change it if that change is big enough. One thing I will be keeping regardless of canon is the body-sharing between the World Guardian and Sliske.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading Sliske, it was the longest thing I've ever written.  
> It also took longer to write and edit than anything else, which I suppose makes sense? "Fixing" Sliske was something I had been wanting to do for a very long time, but never really had the motivation to do, until I did. After writing this is when I well and truly got into writing Runescape fan fiction.


End file.
